Turn off the television
That's showing us an illusion
of lies that confuses and divides
the people, the land & the minds.
Many living ignorantly saying all is mines, never sharing and always lying by committing  self crimes.
Eating fast food and fries which is clogging the mind and arteries. Consuming  the lies and paying fees so best way to achieve peace is to smoke some trees.
Love self by eating smart with nature greens, mixing it with rice and beans and topped with cream.
So don't follow any lies, live your passion by following the dream
And again, let's show love and peace by smoking some trees.

Come enter the darkness
Come witness a monster, a man
Of features of a rare creature
With a clear path for a seeker
With a life of a greeter. Stay warm in this cold world with heater
Away from the gangsters and strippers. Join the growers and hipsters. Free like in the Castro and Mission. Always in the corner, being a loner, getting high like a stoner, being awake unlike an employee and being free.
Don't you see the system of delusion where they draw the conclusion but it's time take back the power and find a resolution
And lead to a revolution

I stole you away from city lights
Yep held it in a brown balled paper bag
Drank in the words like liquor
I didn’t think anybody could see, really.
San Francisco stopped and got back on the treadmill
Made of silicon and now its gone

Beaded sweat of mind bleeds into the bay
I walked on the pier and teared up a little bit lip
The hills once covered in god are covered in another ones
I don’t know what to think of it at all

Grit the teeth against it and grind them to dust
Bite the tongue until it leaks sweet sanguine blood
I drink the wine and dine on the pain
And wish with all my dying heart to meet you again
But you are dead
Even the world you left is dead
And the minds of man are dying
Because they got way too mad of trying

Counter the counted counter-cultured counter-top
Endless sine of combating thought
I’ve walked to the golden-brown California hillcrop
And realized I stood on holy seasonal grassland genocide

With horror the minds withered United State Holodomor
Can I build a paper airplane to take away from here
In time you knew there was nothing here to fear
I cannot find it
Please help me find it

Your alley smells like **** and the taste of forlorn
Bay sits in hazy forever
The water still glitters god’s diamonds but it feels more like
A forgotten mound of coal
You cannot polish these timely souls
From bronze to something gold
If they do not want it

Men like you live to die
And we can pretend that there will be another to tell your place
But Socratic manners of speaking are banned
So too, will you be left on trial

The veil of night shines with roman jewels on an incandescent man-made interstate
I watch them sparkle in the receding mirror, all but the brightest remain
We built stars on our land and pretend they are god
And in a way they are
What poor representatives to those congresses of light
Impossibly far

So I must make do with the day we are born to
Speak words that mean worlds to you
And perhaps together we can reawake something
Disastrous after the soul, and open the I

Fire hair flying all around in the cool San Francisco breeze-
Soft skin hidden under layers but still showing your curves so delicately-
Glimmering white teeth and glacier blue eyes; both smiling as though they had a secret-

"Do you remember San Francisco?" He said as she grabbed her coat and headed towards the door.

From my three-story apartment window I hear the 2am bar fights,
The sirens of the city race by...
I hear the breaking glass from another wandering soul
and the couples that hate each other then make love in the dark alley below me...
I feel the breeze blended with artists dreams pass by,
I lay in this Cal. king drowning in pillows,
Staring at these 1930 off-white walls that have been molested by so many forgotten visitors,
I lay here and I know why I lay alone...

I'm so consumed by the life outside my window that I do not notice when a life walks out my door.

Take my ashes to San Francisco
Follow the steps
And lay me to rest where
I always felt free and at peace

Step one: Irish coffee(s)
Step two: Irish coffee to go
Step three: take the walk and shed your demons
Step four: find my spot and sit
Step five: tune in, unwind, and listen for my reply

Let me go into the ocean
And I'll always be within reach
Stay by the sea and let the water  
Sing you my love songs
I'll be the fog on the horizon
And the brisk embrace
of the Pacific mist

And if you find yourself in need
I'll relinquish my spot
for those days you could use an ear
And feel comfort
Know that I'll hear you
And I'll reply
And if you weep
Let the raindrops that fall
And the howling of the wind
give notice
That I am weeping too

You may grow lonely
But you will never be alone
I'll be within waters reach
And in the city I will
Always be alive with you.

Take my ashes to San Francisco.

Maverick Don’t Panic

A Bad Boy,
with a good Heart,
at the tail end,
of a head start,

“Oh he’s prolific,
he’s profanic,
he’s depressed,
he’s manic,
he’s processed,
he’s organic,
he meditates and sits,
when he just can’t stand it,

and remember this is just a test so for the love of God please don’t panic,

or take anything for granted,

**** it,

I’m a good kid,
but got some bad habits,
got a good plan too,
just have to enact it,

bad,
but not the baddest,
and if they want it,
they can have it,

the map is,
my plan and,
in other words,
the Atlas is how I Nav this,

a Maverick,
like Cuban,
not Gooding no Sir.,
no Jr. a señor,
well not in age but in position,
in other words they’re minor leagues and we’re major,

a Maverick,
like Cuban,
not Gooding no Sir,
no Jr., a señor,
like Mark,
Zuckenberg,
a stark,
contrast between Comcast,
in other words,
Light & Dark are different castes,
in communications at least,
ComCast Communications Caste,
same waves just different frequencies,

in the sea,
the internet catches,
big fish and small fry,
Dark Shadows and Bright Lights,

right?…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

And I felt the universe explode behind my eyes.
                     The language and thoughts
                                     and sensations that accompany such—
                                                 This sea foam fever, this glassy-eyed sickness;
                            what a beautiful horror!  I shiver.
                                                      Thi­s and that.  The shadow of an afternoon.
                                                      ­ A Thursday.
Perhaps it was imagined (that time has passed, that it happened at all)
      But when I wake up in the morning,
                    Emptied of the ticking tocking melancholic howl,
                                   I know why this is so—
                                   I believe I know why this is so—

Of course, to say it aloud would be suicide, and the lovers of the love of the fear prefer purgatory, and of course we do what we can to do what we do to maintain, obtain, sustain.  I aim—
Yes, I aim!—but not in a fulfilled sense:  esse est percipi—to be is to be perceived—a foreign and welcome sensation.  But put those hands away, put that look away, before I forget my—
Before it is lost.  
Lost...? Yes, lost.  
My name, I believe in my name.  Perhaps.  To crawl to crawl to crawl inside of this warm nothingness that tastes like gold soft sweet afternoons, like
driving
along
the
coast
at
dawn
like stopping at the gas station before the forest like the blueness between 5 and 6 pm.  A truly really very steep sort of warmth.  

Temporal fears are so beautifully placed.

Saturdays, when I take the train home
through the hazing misting grayness
I am happy

I lost myself once upon a time
in a place that was only whispered to me in dreams.
Where the fog is thick and threads through the seams
of street lights and street cars with *** fights and brillo bars.  
I tell you I lost myself on the tongue of insanity
who swallowed my soul to feed its humanity.
I lost myself
in a city that found me;

San Francisco, 2013

Let me extend two points like two bridges
that begin in separate places but lead to the same thing.
I’m talking the people in both hands with countless art in between.

The people, the people, the people.
What can’t be said about the near million faces
sleeping on warm pillows or cold stones,
wearing top hats or traffic cones
because not every night are people thriving.
But they’re still surviving, getting busy living or getting busy dying.
In their eyes are stories being told
once you wipe those windows into their souls, deep.
You see it all,
Just like every star in the fall when the sun goes to sleep.
I gave a homeless man a dollar who gave it to another homeless man who then gave it back to me
Like we were passing a love note that said, “You need this more than me.”
So which of us was the one without the home?

Home I soon found in the art of every step taken,
one foot in front of the next.
I can’t walk through that city discounting the side effects.
I was drunk,
but not from bottles or cans
I was drunk from the hands
that told tales with graffiti art to camera pans.
and countless other melodies
massaging bricks into the landmarks that spanned.
Culture sprinkling up and down the hills and between the cracks
Painting colors in the sky as the rainbows stacked,
Finding pots of gold by merely lifting my eye lids back.

There is so much to say about this city in the bay,
that is held in place by the people of race
and the vessels of art that encompass in its space
like stories and attitude,
survival and gratitude,
muse and expression
in delight or depression.

I tell you I lost myself in that city.
But I know now that being lost is sometimes the only way to be truly found.